


shades

by Lysaanderr



Category: TwoSet, Twosetviolin, Video Blogging RPF, twoset violin
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:06:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23261431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysaanderr/pseuds/Lysaanderr
Summary: Brett isn't sure if he can find whatever it is he's looking for. But he has to believe that he will.
Relationships: Brett Yang/David Fung, Brett Yang/Jordon He, Brett Yang/Oliver Scott, Brett Yang/Original Male Character(s), Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47





	1. green

Brett’s sprawled out on the grass, belly down. His cheek is pressed against the ground, and the earth is damp. The sun glints off his glasses and he squints through the blades of grass. The smell is crisp and wet, and his fingers curl into the softness, getting dirt under his nails.

Thudding footsteps and then a pair of sneakers comes into view, kicking up clumps of mud. Brett crosses his eyes as the shoes clomp close, flattening the grass by his nose.

“Yo.”

Brett turns his head at the voice, only a little. A hand, streaked and grimy, is reaching down to him. It is callused and warm. Oliver wrinkles his snub nose and hauls Brett to his feet.

“What are you doing down there?” Oliver points his chin back over his shoulder and across the soccer field. “C’mon, they wanna take a pic of us.”

Brett blinks, then nods. Oliver starts trotting back toward the group and Brett follows. He realizes their hands are still linked and, well, they aren’t children anymore – instinctively, he jerks his hand back, or tries to. Oliver’s grip remains firm for a whole beat, and then another, and then their hands trail apart. Brett is aware that he’s looking at the space where their hands were, his arms now limp at his sides. He gazes down at the scuffed sides of his trainers and at the way the cuff of one of Oliver’s socks droops around an ankle.

“Thought you’d get lost on the way back, y’know?” Oliver’s toothy grin is bright and Brett notices the freckles speckled over his cheeks. “Gotta make sure you’re still here.”

They join the rest of the group and Brett spots Eddy, looking down at some sheet music. The group huddles together, and Brett moves to stay by Oliver. Eddy pops up next to Brett and nudges his side. The conductor huffs, “Oliver, get down or move to the back and stop blocking everyone else.”

Brett looks down at the top of Oliver’s head; his hair is almost brown in the gleaming sunlight and Brett thinks about the grass stains the cellist will be getting on his knees. Brett’s arms move like they’re not part of him, like it’s an afterthought, sliding over Oliver’s shoulders and around his neck. It feels nice, nice to have his arms, his skin, touching Oliver, nice the way ice cream feels nice and cool on his tongue when it’s hot out, nice the way a laugh swells in his chest and throat.

“Your hair.” Oliver stares up at Brett and he reaches up to brush Brett’s bangs aside. Oliver’s hand is rough against his forehead and Brett dips his head forward into the touch. _This is nice_ , Brett thinks. But something in him is snarling and spitting and yowling, and it takes all his effort to keep his arms relaxed, his head bent forward. He closes his eyes and concentrates on _this is nice_ and holds on to green grass and clasped hands and warm sunshine.

The youth orchestra conductor is yelling at them to look at the camera so he does. His arms have gotten stiff and awkward with tension, but stubbornly, he keeps them where they are. _This is mine_ , he thinks. Whatever this is. _Just for me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by an old school/group photo.


	2. olive

“Alright! Gather ‘round!” The conductor claps her hands, then flaps her arms in an attempt to herd them into a cluster. “We need a picture for the yearbook!”

Eddy looks up from the sheet music he had been poring over, just in time to see Oliver take off across the field. _Huh?_ Eddy shades his eyes with the sheet music and makes out a figure in the grass in the distance. Oliver stoops and Brett emerges, as if he had been freshly dug up and uprooted like some kind of vegetable. Both of them head back toward the group and Eddy notes, absent-mindedly, how there’s a streak of dirt on Brett’s cheek and that a lick of hair is plastered across his forehead.

All of them shuffle together awkwardly for the photo, and the conductor clucks, “Oliver, get down or move to the back and stop blocking everyone else.” Oliver rolls his eyes and drops to his knees in the front row with the girls. Eddy tips toward Brett and the other violinist grumbles inaudibly. Eddy had been stretching out over the summer and Brett’s just at the height where Eddy can comfortably rest an elbow on Brett’s shoulder.

Brett leans over Oliver, and Eddy almost wonders if he’s leaning away.

“Your hair.” Oliver snorts and reaches up, brushing his hand through Brett’s bangs, sweeping them to the side, a familiar enough gesture – one that even Brett does. Eddy finds that moment clear and white in his mind, remembers that Brett doesn’t even flinch but instead smiles.

The conductor is yelling for them to face forward and smile but Oliver is looking back over his shoulder, peering up at Eddy with an inscrutable expression on his face. Eddy catches his eye and raises an eyebrow, “What?”

The cellist shrugs. Eddy looks away, looks at the camera, half-heartedly throws up a peace sign. He feels off-balance, like the ground is shifting and Brett’s leaning away from his weight and he can’t quite keep centered. He’s aware of Brett’s pale wrists, draped around Oliver’s neck. He thinks he’s missing something. And Oliver is still looking at him.


	3. purple

Brett wakes to the sound of something sizzling; he sniffs. _Mmmm, bacon._ He stretches his arms lazily, flexes his calves, wriggles his toes. Relishes the slight soreness along the curve of his back. He’s amazed they remembered to get groceries on the way back last night. He rakes a hand through his mussed hair and grins in half-embarrassment behind the palm of his hand, remembers pulling back from a particularly heated kiss to declare, _I’m hungry_. Brett closes his eyes and shivers pleasantly at the memory of frantic kisses in the shadows between streetlights, hands ghosting under his sweater and up the small of his back and down the back of his jeans and-

His eyes snap open. _Mahler Symphony No. 5_ is playing.

Brett kicks off the covers and shivers for a totally different reason – it’s cold! He tugs a blanket around his bare form and pads out the room to the kitchen. He skips over the cold tiles with a yelp and Patrick turns away from the stove, spatula in hand.

“Why are you playing this?” Brett’s last hop sends him plowing right into Vivan’s broad chest as Patrick tosses the spatula back into the pan. Brett nuzzles in and reaches up and around, generously sharing the warmth of his blanket.

“I like the music.” Patrick hooks his arms below Brett’s, lifting him onto the counter. “I really enjoy it.”

Brett tilts his head back and grins, lets himself be borne down across the counter, laughs when Patrick bumps his head against the bottom of the kitchen cabinets and swears. Brett is perfectly content to let the bacon burn when the _Sibelius_ ringtone shrills from his cellphone. He breaks away to catch his breath, “Hang on, I gotta get that.” He squirms free and slips off the counter, snatching up his phone. Viola King stares back, the little VIDEO button bouncing up and down on the screen. Brett glances down at himself and then over his shoulder; a video call may not be the most appropriate. He flops down on the couch and taps the VOICE CALL button instead.

“Yo.”

“Wha- oh.” Eddy’s voice is interrupted by a slight crackle and Brett assumes it’s because he shifted his phone to his ear. “Hey, man! What’s up? I’ve been trying to get you since last night!”

“Yeah?” Brett takes a peek at his screen and flicks the notifications away with a tang of guilt. “Sorry, dude. Was busy.” He takes a look; Patrick’s gone back to cooking breakfast – he’s scraping burnt chunks into the trash and ripping open another packet - and something like a giggle tickles Brett in his chest. “Went to a concert last night actually, _Mahler_.”

“Oh? I didn’t know you had tickets!”

Brett waves a hand dismissively, even if Eddy can’t see it. “That’s all right – I bought them on a whim; I had been wanting to go anyway.”

“Who did you go with?” Brett imagines Eddy furrowing his brow, the way he always does when he asks this question. Brett teases Eddy about being a mother hen but he knows it’s not really quite true and it’s not quite the reason and Eddy knows he knows and they’re just dancing around this on tiptoe like they’re standing on thin ice.

But it’s still a reflex, albeit a defensive one, and it’s all Brett has. “Just a guy from the bar, Mom,” Brett drawls out the last word and rolls his eyes. Eddy can’t see him anyway and it’s almost like he’s trying to convince himself.

“S-some random guy?” Eddy sounds incredulous, and Brett is suddenly exasperated.

“Yeah, man, I thought you said you and Toni were going to check out all the touristy places and I had two tickets anyway.”

Patrick has somehow crept over and his wandering hands are making it difficult to concentrate.

“Bro, you could have told me and I would have gone with you instead!”

Brett stifles a laugh, trying to shrug Patrick off when the other man burrows his face into the crook of Brett’s neck. “Nah, don’t worry about it!”

“Fine. I have to go,” Eddy says curtly, and Brett manages to shove Patrick away, a little breathlessly. _Why did he call then?_ Brett wonders, and a tiny seed of annoyance swells in the back of his eyes. It’s tinged with something else, something ugly and somewhat familiar but it bothers him, nags at him like an incoming sneeze. But then Patrick runs his tongue along the shell of Brett’s ear and murmurs suggestions of what they can do after breakfast so, whatever, he can talk to Eddy later. He doesn’t remember what he says, he just remembers that he wants to hang up because having Eddy here, listening, makes him feel guilty, like he’s lying about something but he hadn’t lied about anything, so there.

Brett hangs up.

“I’m hungry,” He hums against Patrick’s lips, his fingers curling in the hair at the nape of the taller man’s neck. He doesn’t how else to name the low ache in his belly, in his chest, spreading its tendrils into his limbs. _Hungry, hungry, hungry_ , he thinks as he steals kisses and touches, presses the firm tips of his fingertips to soft and unfamiliar ones. Brett imagines Eddy and Toni walking down the street, looking out across the water at the Sydney Opera House and taking photos and selfies and holding hands, and thinks, _I’m so hungry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by an interview, "Around the clock busking with two violins" (30 Mar 2017) at 14:55: https://www.rnz.co.nz/audio/player?audio_id=201838535


	4. violet

Eddy grabs his phone from the bedside table and stares at all his missed calls to Brett. Dude didn’t even text him back! He rubs his eyes blearily and yawns; he hears Toni clattering about in the washroom. Eddy’s thumb hovers uncertainly over the CALL button. What if something terrible happened? What if there was an accident? Eddy half-wonders in a panic if he should check the news first.

Wait, no. He takes a deep breath and exhales through his nose. He’s getting ahead of himself. He sees Brett sitting in his PJs in bed, hair tousled and glasses smudged with fingerprints. Then he grins and hits the VIDEO CALL button.

The call flips over to a regular call instead and Eddy fumbles when he brings it to his ear, trying not to drop the phone onto his own face.

“Hey, man! What’s up? I’ve been trying to get you since last night!” He knows he sounds accusatory but he can’t help it – he totally thought Brett had gotten into an accident of some sort! Besides, he’s only going to be in Sydney for a week so they don’t even have much time to hang out anyway. Brett’s talking about Mahler now, some concert last night, and Eddy fights the sudden sting of irritation. Or rather, no, he doesn’t fight it and he lets it sting him and carries the barb into his mouth. “Bro, you could have told me and I would have gone with you instead!”

“Nah, don’t worry about it!” Brett is laughing, almost giddy. Eddy feels unreasonably angry.

“Fine,” he snaps. “I have to go.” He doesn’t have to. He doesn’t want to.

“Oh,” Brett’s chortle trails off a little. “Okay, then. Tell Toni I said hi.” Was that disappointment?

Eddy almost forgives Brett entirely, immediately, though he’s not sure what he was even mad about. “Yeah, I will-”

A baritone voice rumbles in the background and Eddy hears the phone crackle as Brett covers the mouthpiece and says something in return. One of Eddy’s knuckles pop; his grip had tightened over his phone.

“Gotta go. Later, bro,” Brett’s voice comes back over the line, cheery and bright. Then the line goes dead.

Eddy closes his eyes, his phone still pressed to his ear. He doesn’t know how long he lies there, listening to nothing.

Someone jostles his shoulder and he opens his eyes – it’s Toni, staring at him curiously. “Are you going to get up or what?” She raises an eyebrow. Eddy drops his hand, tosses his phone aside. He swallows against something in his throat and forces himself to meet her gaze evenly, “Brett says hi.”


	5. yellow

The bell jangles as Brett steps into the diner. David looks up from the booth and waves; Brett raises a hand in return in what he hopes is a nonchalant manner, but his heart is racing with fanboy glee. 

Brett slides into the booth as the waitress approaches to take his order. He doesn't miss the charming smile David flashes at her but the waitress is immune; she peers down at her notepad, pencil poised, "How can I help you boys?"

Brett glances at David and scrambles for the menu, flipping it open. "Well, uh, what do you rec-?"

David leans over, reaches out with a hand, and places it just on the edge of the menu. Brett stares down at the space between their fingers and tells himself to calm down. "May I?" David asks and Brett's definitely _not_ immune to _that_ smile. He nods mutely.

"Poutine." David orders, with extra gravy and cheese curds. He also gets each of them a burger and a Coke, but he turns to Brett and says in an aside, "Though I know you prefer bubble tea." and Brett thinks it's about time he woke up. Or maybe never.

When the waitress takes off with their order, David turns back to Brett and Brett can barely handle the full force of the pianist's attention on him. He also realizes that David's hand still rests by his. Brett shuts the menu in a panic and David jerks his fingers back with a yelp that's half a laugh and Brett panics some more.

"Oh, shit, fuck, sorry!" Brett reaches out, a habit, (an image of accidentally dropping a saucer full of soy sauce across Eddy's hands and lap when they were out for hotpot once) and clasps David's hands in one of his own. 

"I'm all right, I'm all right!" David is still laughing, carefully pulling his hands free and Brett jerks back, mentally screaming. He can feel his face getting red, the heat spreading up the back of his neck to his ears.

Brett snatches at a glass of water and takes two heady gulps. David sips from his and watches Brett over the rim of the glass. Their eyes meet and David gives a crooked little grin, and drums his fingers on the tabletop. Brett watches and listens, and he recognizes the beat, the melody, the song. The Tchaikovsky piano concerto. He looks up at the pianist and smiles back and the frenzied thrum inside him settles a little. 

"Okay," Brett holds up his hands in mock-surrender. "We - no, I need a restart." He mimes hitting a button. "Restart!" 

Their food comes soon enough, and they reminisce about the year before when Brett had gotten David to do a video for TwoSet back in Brisbane. Brett had basically fanboy-ed at him after seeing him in concert and had asked him over to Eddy's to film a short video. (Eddy was surprised when Brett nearly hammered down the door in excitement and dragged David through the door with him. They had to do it at Eddy's since Brett didn't have a piano and all their recording equipment was there anyway.) They chat about music, about Tchaikovsky, about food (poutine, in particular), about everything and nothing.

They shuffle out of the diner and into the slush. Brett shoves his hands deep into his pockets and shivers. He looks down the street toward his apartment - they should probably get recording soon. David doesn’t have much time in Sydney so they really only have tonight. 

"There's a great gelato place down the street," Brett finds himself saying. His breath plumes from his mouth and he curls his cold fingers into fists. _What a dumbass thing to say_ , Brett rails at himself.

David is busy twining his scarf around his neck but he meets Brett's eyes. "Sure." A simple enough word, but it still sends Brett's pulse rocketing.

The rest of the evening is a blur and before Brett's barely aware of it, they're fumbling into Brett's apartment with David's hand under his shirt, and Brett is trying to pull the key from the lock with one hand and get David's coat off with the other.

They land on the couch in a tangle of limbs, and David's phone rings. 

"Ah, fuck." The pianist tries to peel away from Brett and the shorter man groans in resignation.

Brett stares out the curtain windows, at the bright glimmer of the Sydney Opera House. David's voice is low in the background, speaking quietly into his phone. Brett rubs his arm across his face and wonders what Eddy is doing. Is he chilling with Toni, back in Brisbane? Did he manage to get more music gigs? Did he ever get something from that new tea store that opened downtown?

He jumps when a hand touches him lightly on the small of his back. David leans over his sprawled figure, sliding his hand up to the nape of his neck. 

"Sorry," David sounds genuinely apologetic. "We should probably get recording soon; I have to make sure I get back in time and it's an early flight back to New York."

Brett sighs and reaches back to twine his fingers with David's. "All right." Then he glances at his kitchen and remembers the wine Eddy had gotten him for his housewarming when he first moved to Sydney. _Still. Might as well celebrate a little._ "Let's do this." Brett rolls over and sits up, but pauses. He holds up one finger. "On one condition."

David's cheeks are still a little flushed and the white of his teeth gleam against his kiss-swollen lips. "Anything." 

Brett wants to take a snapshot of that smile and muss that hair up even more. "Wine." Brett snaps his fingers at the kitchen. "And THEN we get to work."

David laughs and helps Brett get the wine glasses down from the higher shelf. "What are we celebrating?"

Brett pops open the bottle and pours out two glasses, humming in thought. Then he raises a glass and nods decisively. "Music."

David raises an eyebrow in what Brett hopes is approval. "To music.”

Their glasses clink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the introduction of the third episode of Brett's podcast, "The Bretty Bang Show": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBdhjFSDT2w


	6. chiffon

Eddy clicks on the latest episode of Brett’s podcast, humming to himself. He grabs his mug where he has tea steeping and checks the timer - has it been five minutes yet? - and glances to see if the podcast has loaded up. Damn Australian Internet. Brett had told him that he had managed to get an interview with David Fung, the piano soloist Brett hadn't stopped gushing about every time they had come across a piano piece. He had seemed pretty excited about the interview, and Eddy grudgingly admits to himself that he loves it when Brett's excited about anything, even if that something doesn't have anything to do with Eddy. 

The podcast loads and starts to play. Eddy blinks slowly in contentment when Brett's familiar voice comes on... but he sounds different. A little giggly, a little tipsy, and that old familiar ugly thing with fangs is grappling with Eddy for control because he wants Brett to be like that only with him, wants him slurring his words, eyes bright, next to him right now. 

Eddy half-listens, trying (and failing) to bat back an irrational rising panic. His imagination gets the better of him; his imagination is probably right. He finds that his jaw is clenched, teeth grinding. His shoulders have tensed and the line of his spine is stiff. 

He has to do something. A surge of restlessness. Eddy stands up, chair scraping back with a grating screech. Then he sits back down. He reaches for his phone. What is Brett doing right now? But he stops. He should have done something. Yesterday, the week before, a year before, so many, many years before. 

Eddy looks down at his tea. A curl of steam brushes lightly against the tip of his nose. The timer goes off and Eddy lets it ring.


	7. gold

They didn't know when or how it started, exactly. Brett has never brought it up, and neither has Jordon. Sometimes, they wake up next to each other and meet each other's eyes. Sometimes, they look away. 

But it's not so bad, this see-sawing thing that they have. Up and down, swaying to the other's push and pull, letting the other lift you as you sink.

They've known each other since they were gawky and awkward, had braces and acne and fashionably terrible hair. One day, in university, Jordon had walked up to Brett outside a practice room and had handed him a sheet of paper. Brett looked down - sheet music. Then he looked a little closer; it was nothing he recognized.

"What's that?" He asked.

"Just something." Jordon said. Then Brett noticed, below the title, in a messy scrawl, _For Brett Yang_.

Brett feels an odd little discrepancy in the universe when he glances between Jordon and Eddy, like he's in a science fiction movie and all his _what-ifs_ are bundled into two different people. He could have taken a different step, skipped one single math tutoring class, and then where would he be now? Would he have spent all these years playing Jordon's songs? Who would have been playing by his side, if not Eddy?

Brett grunts when Jordon accidentally (or not) jabs him in the back with a knee; he rolls over to shove at the other dark-haired man. A mistake. Jordon's awake, and strong fingers curl around Brett's wrists in retaliation, arresting Brett's movement. Brett can't quite see Jordon in the dark and he relaxes after a beat when neither of them move. Then Jordon starts to hum. It's something new; Brett hasn't heard this before. But what is it? Is it for the piano? The violin? Both? An entire orchestra?

Brett snuggles in close and Jordon lets him, releasing his grip and easing his arms open to give Brett some wiggle room; Brett tucks his head under Jordon's chin. They're about the same height but it doesn't really matter when they're curled up like this.

Jordon hums, and Brett feels the vibration that wavers from his chest and through his throat, thrums against his cheek. It's nice, here, in this gentle swaying sound. When he's with Jordon, he always feels like the other man is simply pulsing with music, with life, like all the symphonies inside him are leaking out from his fingertips, his kisses, his low sighs. 

There had been bad times too, of course, when the push-and-pull got to be too much, when they had danced a little too close to this invisible line they've drawn between them. 

Once. Brett had gotten drunk and was stumbling home at 3 A.M. because Eddy had left early, had left with Toni, and something in Brett was clawing and tearing and weeping. He headed to Jordon's and the other man let him in, silently and, he had thought at the time, without judgment, but when Brett woke the next morning with a roaring hangover, Jordon had already gone (though, thankfully and maybe a little heartrendingly, with breakfast waiting on the table).

Once. Jordon was playing the piano, and they had been running through a piece to work the kinks out of the composition when Jordon stood and snapped his pencil in half. Brett stopped, lowered his bow. He stared at the brittle end of the pencil, the splinters cutting into Jordon's hands and fingers, the angry red crescent-moon welts from clenched fists. 

"Play like yourself." Jordon said evenly, but there was a tremor below the steady tone. And then Brett realized that he had been playing like Eddy, or trying to anyway. He had been imagining playing this for Eddy, pretending to be Eddy flexing his perfect pitch and playing it back to him. 

Sometimes, even if it's just sometimes (and Brett feels the swell of guilt because it's not fair to either of them), Brett finds himself thinking, _at least Eddy would be crying, demanding, clingy, transparent in what he needs and wants_ , but Brett and Jordon are left standing, staring at each other, tight-jawed and white-knuckled. They know how to use silence, to steadily stack it like bricks, to use it as a hefty weight with which to throw. 

These are the times when Brett feels wild, like he's tearing things apart with his inability to say yes, with his incapacity to say no, to rage and rage against all the things he has to give up and all the things he wants to hold on to. And, there, Jordon. The eye of the storm, waiting, quiet. The guilt is unreasonable but Brett feels it all the same. Jordon has never asked him to choose because he knows that any other option is merely an illusion. He takes Brett in and lets him go. He writes music and poetry. Jordon has never asked for anything else.

But there are times where it was easy, too easy and too comfortable, like rocking in a baby crib that feels like home, even if you'd eventually have to grow up, get up, and get out. Jordon hands Brett a newly-composed piece, _For Brett Yang_ , and Brett plays it. When it's a piece for two violins, still _For Brett Yang_ , Brett gets the sneaky suspicion that Jordon feels he's being generous, but he shares it with Eddy anyway, and they play it.

"What's that?" Brett finally asks drowsily. Jordon keeps humming until he reaches the mental end of the bar, then buries his face in the crown of Brett's head.

"Just something," Jordon yawns, sliding a hand up Brett's back and cupping his face, before trailing his fingers through Brett's bangs. "Receding hairline," he mumbles. 

Brett grunts in mock affront. They lie there for a while in silence, then Jordon begins humming again. It's nice and cozy and warm, with their arms and legs tangled, nestled into Brett-and-Jordon dents in the pillows.

Brett waits until what he thinks is the end of the first movement, then says into Jordon's chest, muffled, "We're going on a world tour."

Jordon's pause stretches out a little bit more, and then he continues humming. Brett wonders if it's his imagination that the arms around him get tighter or maybe looser. He closes his eyes and lets Jordon's music rise over him and tug him back down into sleep.

When Brett's leaving the next morning, Jordon hands him a sheet of paper. It's handwritten and scribbled in a hurry, the edges of the paper crumpled and curled. There's a coffee stain where the title is but as always, below it, _For Brett Yang_. When Brett looks up and finally asks, Jordon says simply, "You are part of everything I write." And then he shrugs like it's no deal.

Brett wants to say, _you're_ not _not important to me_ , but he doesn't because neither of them are the types for useless platitudes. 

They say goodbye and it tastes different, tastes sweet and sour and new and familiar all at the same time. Brett's heart is singing and crying and he walks away, down the front steps and to his car, and he sits in the driver's seat, smooths the wrinkled sheet music on the dashboard over and over, eyes burning and vision blurring, and he thinks, _For me. For me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a poem that was written by Jordon and dedicated to Brett.
> 
> Ekphrastic on Concerto Battle by Jordon He  
> For Brett Yang
> 
> _Music encompasses silence and sound, the delicate boundary  
>  of soloist and ensemble an oscillating string  
> upon the stage of the fingerboard.  
> Notes spiral higher to reach principality, beyond that,  
> in spite of this competition the same tonic guides them.  
> Time vibrates, minute changes in pitch, between  
> violin and violin and piano and audience  
> anticipating the movement of the other,  
> running through parallel grooves in the bridge.  
> Piano as foundation/bass that rises with rich tone,  
> violins weaving sound together, shifting position in left hand and melodic prominence,  
> and the audience responding with the bright cheer(s) of the E string. ___


	8. epilogue

It's a few days after their world tour and Brett still feels exhausted and hyped up, all at once. There are tons of videos that fans have uploaded of their shows from everywhere and Brett feels giddy with a crazy kind of joy when he sees them.

An email notification pops up and Brett clicks on it. A separate window pops open, and Brett blinks; it's from Jordon. The email has no subject, and the email itself is just text - a poem. Brett reads.

_Ekphrastic on Concerto Battle by Jordon He_

_For Brett Yang_

He snaps a picture of it and posts it on social media – he knows Jordon will see it. Warmth wells up inside him, sweet and luminous.

He remembers, Jordon had mentioned before that he says "I love you" too easily. 

_"Aren't you supposed to save that?" Jordon laughed in response when Brett said that, and then hauled Jordon into the bathtub with him._

_"Save it?" Brett pushed his mop of wet hair back, tugged Jordon under the roaring spray of water. "For what?"_

_Jordon squirmed away to catch his breath. "For when you mean it."_

_Brett cupped Jordon's face in his hands, the water rushing down his back. He looked straight at Jordon in the eye. "I always mean it."_

_Jordon didn't look away. "I know."_

He loves them; he does. He feels the love, inside him and out, golden and sharp. But. He glances down at the poem again. At the end of every piece and performance and success and failure, the constant that remains. He lifts his bow and plays a single clear note.

“E for Eddy!” Eddy yells from the other room and Brett laughs.


End file.
